Confession
by Shadowcatxx
Summary: Canada watched America silently—invisibly. "Why do you do this to me?" he thought, feeling betrayed. "Why do you make me feel like a ghost?" America had no idea how much his silence hurt; how terrible it made Canada feel when his best friend—the person he trusted—pretended that he didn't exist. It was the worst feeling there was.
1. Chapter One

**DISCLAIMER:**** Hetalia: Axis Powers **– **Hidekaz Himaruya**

**CONFESSION**

* * *

**ONE**

Canada watched silently—invisibly—as America gestured, retelling a story he had already, so-theatrically, regaled Canada with twenty-four hours ago. His cornflower-blue eyes were bright with laughter, enjoying the captivated faces staring back at him; like an actor playing a role. His suntanned skin was flushed healthily—his shirtsleeves shoved to his elbows as he talked; his big, honest smile showing perfect, pearl-white teeth. He was taller than most of the countries surrounding him; broad-shouldered and roped with lean, young muscle—effortlessly strong. He arched his back, leaning down to indicate the story's climax, then lunged forward. His audience reacted as expected: they flinched and gasped, and then smiled, nodding in appreciation. Canada knew. He had already heard that story—twice.

Canada and America had always been together, for as long as either of them could remember; they might as well have been twins, born together into the same world. They looked so similar that the other countries—including England and France, their imperial parents—could hardly tell them apart; most called them both _America_ to make it easier, pretending it was an affectionate joke when corrected: "You're so much alike!"

_But we're not_, Canada thought, following America with his eyes. _I'm paler_—and not just in colouring. Canada lacked America's charisma; his natural talent for public-speaking and his command—_demand_—for attention; his outspoken boldness and rebelliousness; his self-serving attitude and total confidence in himself. Everything he did was bigger and louder, and—whether good or bad—drew everyone's undivided attention. He was self-indulgent, and spoiled, and stubborn, and he could be _so_ immature; a walking headache to argue with (_he never admits when he's wrong_!). _He can be insufferable— but everyone still likes him._ Despite his overwhelming personality, America made friends and allies easily; naturally. He seemed to genuinely like people and was always honest. Even if he didn't trust their motives, he never hid; never lied. Canada never lied either, but— _What have I got to lie about_? There was only one dark secret lurking in the depths of his heart; one that he would take to the grave.

Canada watched America glance in his direction and excuse himself from the crowd. He began walking over, grabbing a champagne flute from a passing waiter; smiling caddishly at friends and rivals. Canada kept his back to the conference room wall, feeling less exposed. It was a good vantage point to survey the room from without having to actively take part. It's where he felt most comfortable. _I'm better suited to the sidelines_,_ assisting and profiting in my own way without drawing too much attention to myself_. Canada didn't have the backbone that the Europeans did—that America had seemed to inherit—who had been criticizing and harassing each other for centuries. Being judged and ridiculed was simply a part of standing in the international spotlight, but he knew that, however hard he might pretend to accept it, it would hurt. Canada didn't consider himself overly-sensitive, but words had always hurt him more than fists, or bullets, or bombs. _Besides_, he thought, eyes shifting, _I never know what to say to anyone_;_ half the time they think I'm America_,_ and the other half they're disappointed that I'm not_. Polite small-talk and a sweet smile only lasted so long before they started to think he was distant; forgotten. He was much better talking to people one-on-one, but, having been invited to a world conference, that was unlikely to happen tonight.

"At least I'll have America," he had thought, twenty-four hours ago. They had decided to share a hotel room: "It'll be just like when we were kids!" America said, and—just like children—they had spent much of the night talking and laughing and then falling asleep together in a pillow-fort on America's bed. It had reminded Canada that America was, and always would be, his best friend; the person to whom he could talk to, and depend on. When it was just the two of them, he didn't feel invisible; he felt alive. When they were alone, America had an uncanny ability to make him feel like the only one in the world who mattered. And it felt good to be wanted, not only needed. Loyalty meant a lot to Canada, and knowing that America wouldn't abandoned him made him feel safe. But as soon as the conference began:

Canada stood up straighter, his lips curling into a hopeful half-smile as America neared him— then waved to someone outside and walked right past Canada out onto the patio.

_How strange it is_, he thought, feeling suddenly empty, _to feel lonely in a room full of people_.

He looked outside and felt a stab of jealousy, which was the most painful of sins. England wagged a cigarette at France, who shrugged cavalierly; arguing about something inconsequential as America laughed. Together they took hold of America and shook him, poked at him, tickled him in affectionate retaliation; they insulted him, inadvertently indulging his inflated ego; his self-importance. And the three of them smiled. They were so alike—America, England, and France—all without wanting to admit it. And Canada—?

_ I've always been here_._ I've never betrayed you_, _and I've never rebelled_. _I always come when I'm called_, _when I'm needed_,_ and I never ask questions_. _I obey your laws_; _I get the job done_._ I respect and honour my heritage_. _I've sacrificed unlimited funds and resources_,_ and entire generations for you both_. _I've always fought beside you_,_ and I always will. So why don't you ever look at me like that_?

_Why can't you remember my name_— _my face_?

Suddenly Canada locked eyes with America: violet staring into cornflower-blue, and he thought: _I know you can see me_,_ America_. America's face was honest; readable. Canada waited for him to say something to England and France; to gesture for him, or at least look ashamed that he had forgotten his adopted brother. And, for a moment, it looked like he would. But then his expression changed, and Canada could see guilt-mixed-greed in his eyes. _You're not going to do anything_,_ are you_? As if on-cue, America looked away, pretending that he hadn't seen Canada: his northern neighbour; ally; friend; brother. Instead, he feigned thirst and walked back into the conference room, past Canada without a second glance.

_Why do you do this_? Canada thought, feeling betrayed. _Why do you make me feel like a ghost_?

America had no idea how much his silence hurt; how terrible it made Canada feel when his best friend—the person he trusted—pretended that he didn't exist. And for what? So he could take all of the attention, the glory, the reputation that they might otherwise share. America was good at differentiating himself, even if Canada was not. _You do it because you know I'll never leave you_,_ like I've never left England_,_ and you're right_, he thought sadly. _Because I can't imagine my life without you_,_ America_;_ I'm dependent on you. You're all I've got_,_ my best friend and brother. I need you the most_;_ I love you more than anyone—_

And that was Canada's best-kept secret, the one he would—could—never share. It was the worst feeling there was: To hate the person you love best in the world.


	2. Chapter Two

**DISCLAIMER:**** Hetalia: Axis Powers ****– Hidekaz Himaruya**

**CONFESSION**

* * *

**TWO**

America watched subtly from the corner of his eye as Canada shrank shyly against the conference room wall, avoiding contact with anyone. He would've invited his adoptive brother to join them, but he had already told Canada this story twice; _he wouldn't want to hear it again_, America thought. It was _because_ Canada had liked the story that he wanted to share it with everyone else; he wanted to see them light-up the way Canada had, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. America loved the undivided attention he got from Canada; it fed his ego—yes, he was aware of it—and made him feel good. Canada's sweet, shy smile was contagious. It touched his big, violet eyes. He stood there now, looking like a boy awaiting a dance, fidgeting with his sleeve-cuffs as he surveyed the crowd; his tall figure was lean and lithe, and snow-white; and he lifted a hand to brush back his soft, pale-blonde curls. He looked so nonthreatening, which is what America liked about him. He liked that he could completely let his guard down around Canada—they had the longest undefended border in the world, after all. He liked that he could shed the tough-guy act and be himself without worrying about what would be said. He didn't know anyone more accepting than his brother, and it made him feel genuinely wanted; safe from ridicule.

Canada and America had always been together, even before Europe; they had spent their childhood in North America, isolated from the rest of the world. It had taken a long time for the other countries to be able to differentiate between them, they looked so similar. America thought it was funny when they called both of them _America_—_short for North America_, he assumed, which was a great nickname for both of them.

Dramatically he leapt forward and finished his story, enjoying the chorus of laugher—some genuine, some polite—that followed. None of them laughed like Canada had though (he and America had the same sense of humour). _He's paler than me_, he thought as he walked toward his brother, all alone; feeling protective. Smiling at friends and rivals alike, he grabbed a champagne flute and touched it to his lips, while habitually glancing at Canada to make sure he didn't disappear. His presence was so quiet and unobtrusive that sometimes even America had trouble noticing him. _He's passive_,he considered,_ but he's not weak. He's kind-hearted_,_ and respectful_,_ and he always wants to help_;_ he lacks confidence_,_ but his intentions are genuine._ America thought that he and Canada made a good team because they balanced each other. _I'm the light_;_ he's the shadow_. Canada could be cold and condescending—a side few people saw—and when they were kids he was such a daddy's boy, but America admired his loyalty. He liked that he could always rely on Canada. _It's why everyone likes him_, he thought, surveying the conference room. He narrowed his blue eyes: _It's why I have to protect him_,_ so that they don't take advantage_, he told himself—lied to himself.

America was so used to the liars, and critics, and gossips, and backstabbers; he was practically desensitized to the insults, at least from people whose opinions he didn't respect. Unwittingly, England and France had taught him how to armour himself with his weaknesses so they could never be used to hurt him; to take pride in himself—nobody else would—so that they couldn't break him. "Pride is the heart of survival," England had told him once, and America had never forgotten it. But Canada— _He's not like us_,_ he's vulnerable to cruelty_. America had always considered his brother to be soft—winter-cold temper aside—and in need of protection. He didn't want Canada to suffer the pressure and loneliness of living in the international spotlight, which is why he didn't draw attention to him, especially in large crowds, which made Canada anxious. _Sometimes it's easier to take the blow yourself than to watch your loved-ones suffer_, America thought heroically, which is exactly why he ignored Canada's hopeful half-smile and walked right past him onto the patio. He felt guilty, of course, but relieved as well.

_It's for your own good_, _Canada_— or, was it for _America's_ own good?

As he joined England and France, having a smoke on the patio, he could feel his brother's violet eyes staring at him, waiting to be invited. But America ignored him. He really didn't want to draw England or France's attention to Canada because—in all honesty—seeing him would only remind his imperial parents that Canada was their favourite, and it made America feel insecure, a feeling he detested.

_How strange it is to feel both possessive and jealous of the same person_? he thought bitterly.

He loved Canada, he always had; his pale-faced brother was practically impossible _not_ to love—but that's what worried America. They had so much fun together; they shared such similar tastes, history, and heritage, but every time they were joined by a third party—or, in this case, attended a world conference—America was afraid that the others would start to notice the differences between them, and realize how much they liked Canada better. It was ridiculous, of course; paranoia. But it ate at America, who had started to wear his pride like a shield. _If they start to focus on him_,_ will they forget about me_? It was his greatest fear—being forgotten. He could never forgive the world if they forgot about him the way they forgot about Canada; _I couldn't live alone like that_. The thought alone made his heartbeat skip; made his shirt-collar feel too tight. Strategically he insulted France to distract himself, and soon found himself the recipient of several, rather colourful, European insults as England and France teased and poked fun at him affectionately. It served his purpose; it made him feel wanted and noticed and loved. _Just don't turn around_, he silently begged. _Don't look at Canada_, _keep looking at me_, he thought, secretly terrified that someday their roles would be reversed; that he would be replaced by Canada. That the world would finally get tired of his loud-mouthed interference and ostracize him; cast him out to be alone.

_But as long as I have Canada that will never happen_, he told himself. As long as he kept Canada dependent on him—_make him believe that I'm the only one who cares_—he would always have an ally and would never be alone.

In accident he looked up and locked eyes with his northern neighbour, his brother: cold, heartbroken violet staring into guilty blue. Canada's eyes seemed to say: _I know you can see me_. America felt slightly sick. He didn't want to hurt Canada—in fact, he almost called-out to him, but the invitation died on his lips. _I know it's selfish and petty_, _but I don't want to remind everyone how wonderful you are compared to me_, he thought greedily; in self-loathing. _I don't want them to realize how different we really are_,_ because then they won't think of us as the North American brothers anymore_;_ we won't be connected. I'll lose you_, _and that scares me_.

Canada was his constant, forever his partner. America trusted that his brother would never actively abandon him, but he couldn't deny that he might—very easily—be stolen away. _I won't lose you to them_, he decided, breaking eye-contact; pretending he hadn't seen Canada. _Even if I have to hide you in plain-sight to do it. _Because even if the world turned against him; decided that they hated him, resented him; even if they continued to lie, and criticize, and gossip about him, he would always have Canada. Feigning thirst, America walked back into the conference room, past Canada without a second glance. _I'm sorry_,_ but I need you to stay invisible so that I never lose you_.

Canada might have been America's shadow; but he was also his light in the cold darkness of the world. And _that_ was America's best-kept secret, something that he would never—could never—reveal.

* * *

**FIN**

**THANK-YOU for reading. Reviews are always welcome and appreciated :)**


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